


idol status

by cowboyflesh (cowboymeat), lambchops (lambmeat)



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Angry Sex, Barebacking, Bottom Johnny Silverhand (Cyberpunk 2077), Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, Forced Submission, Impact Play, M/M, Rough Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-12 09:46:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29008512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboymeat/pseuds/cowboyflesh, https://archiveofourown.org/users/lambmeat/pseuds/lambchops
Summary: “Getting off, being in control?”“Eat shit. Get down.”Albeit with great hesitance, Silverhand does what he’s told as Kerry's grip on his wrists slackens. Even in the debasing position of being ordered to swallow a cock, he holds an air of dominion over the situation, as if he were merely loaning the power to Kerry, lending it temporarily with the expectation of interest well-paid. He finally settles— almost too easily— with the bridge of his nose pressed against Kerry’s clothed arousal.“Least this way you’ll shut up.”
Relationships: Kerry Eurodyne/Johnny Silverhand
Comments: 6
Kudos: 91





	idol status

An empty bottle clatters onto the vanity, thrown with vitriol. It collides with another, both tumbling to the floor as Johnny kicks the leg of the table in mounting frustration. The objects atop the dresser shake with the force, the sound of glass bottles rattling and clanking against the hard wood is negligible in the midst of the yelling match.

“It’s not _my_ fault that you’re so fucking dependent that you can’t tune your own guitar!” Johnny bellows, still rummaging around.

“You fucking _kicked_ it!” Kerry yells back. “I watched you do it!”

A painfully ordinary occurrence for them. Something or another bubbling from the pressure of the gig and boiling over in the rehearsal room. It’s always gotta be something petty, something minor that ultimately doesn’t matter, but neither Kerry nor Johnny know how to live in moderation. Bigger is better, and that includes the fights.

Johnny tears the room apart looking for anything to get high with. Whenever they get into it, he does his best to simply remove himself mentally, which circumvents the problem. Half the time, Kerry would even lend a hand in finding his pills or his papers to roll a joint if it meant that Johnny would shut up.

Not tonight, not after the little stunt Silverhand pulled. Left Kerry was stuck on stage with a horribly out-of-tune, if not broken, bass. He thought it’d be a harmless prank to kick his guitar case off its ledge just before the performance, as they were grabbing their gear to set up in the vacancy of the last crew. A hurried glance-over didn’t show any signs of physical damage, but it didn’t sound right for half the performance until it was impulsively cast from the stage in a fit of irritation.

Now, witnessing the rockerboy rabidly dig through the already-wrecked rehearsal room for anything to launch him out of his mind makes something snap in him, and the tentative buffer he keeps between them rapidly shrinks. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” Johnny snarls at him the moment he feels the hovering presence at his back. Of course, Kerry doesn’t blink at the growling threat woven into his words. He grabs Johnny’s prosthetic shoulder and shoves him against the dresser to look him in the eye.

“You always gotta be high ‘cause you don’t like when I fight back,” Kerry accuses, “that it? Is that why you’re two seconds from whoring yourself out for a fix?”

Johnny returns the shove with three times the force, enough to topple almost anyone. Kerry, however, has grown used to such treatment, knows how to handle it with grace— as much grace as one could muster in the face of a frothing rockstar.

Grabbing a hold of Johnny’s tank top, Kerry catches himself from tripping over his own feet and slams Silverhand against the vanity again. It momentarily stuns Johnny, a flash of surprise crossing his face before rage sets in like an impression set in concrete, ever-present.

“As if I’m fucking scared of a washed-up joytoy,” Johnny hisses. Eyes narrowed, lips curled back over his teeth in a snarl, he looks about ready to either headbutt Kerry’s teeth in or spit in his eye.

The heat between them sits low in Kerry’s stomach. The physical scuffles they get into almost always end up in devastingly loud sex, one way or another. Usually, with Johnny holding his unshakable dominance over Kerry as he uses his body for his own pleasure. And with Kerry slinking away, thoroughly set back into the place Johnny deems he belongs in.

Kerry’s nostrils flare, matching the gaze tit-for-tat. He then surges to crush their lips together, causing Johnny’s back to arch against the hard edge of the vanity. 

Hand still fisted in the rockerboy’s shirt, Kerry’s other finds Johnny’s prosthetic fingers trying to find his belt buckle and rips the hand away. Squeezing the metal so hard it creaks and his knuckles blanch, he tries to devour the dominance Johnny so easily exudes. Kerry keeps the other man in place. 

Their teeth click and catch on each other’s lips, and their tongues sloppily try to force into the others mouth, only to be nipped at mercilessly.

With a swear, Kerry stiffens and rips himself away as a blip of pain registers in his lust-clouded mind. His tongue peeks out and sweeps across his lower lip, catching the metallic tang of blood from his newly-split lip. 

Johnny wears a shiteating, self-satisfied grin, eyes half-lidded as the buzz of arousal gets to him as well. Doesn’t even fight the tight grip around his wrist. Just relaxes against the vanity with his hips canted forward and a raised eyebrow. 

He thinks he knows where this is going, how it’ll end up, and he’s already sizing Kerry up.

Kerry grabs a healthy handful of his hair and yanks his head back, baring his throat to him. 

“You fucking should be,” Kerry seethes, speaking to Johnny where he’s wrenched him down backwards. It wringes a strained grunt from Johnny, who glowers. Another tug back for good measure. 

“Yeah? And what’re gonna do?” he jeers, his other hand coming to brace against Kerry’s wrist, trying to lessen the strain on his scalp, “tell me to _be better_? That I’m a disappointment?”

Reinforcing his grip, he garners another noise of pain from Silverhand as his head is pulled downwards. There’s no hint of give in Kerry’s features, not in how he’s glaring at Johnny in silent fury. Immovable, evident in how the rockerboy is awkwardly bent over the hard edge of the dresser, forced to make room for Kerry between his thighs.

Johnny is the one that is going to mold and bend to him tonight. 

His fingernails scratch his scalp and he jostles him like a dog with a toy. Johnny winces. Color sits high on his cheekbones and his jaw is clenched shut.

“Gonna put you back in your place,” he says, words clicking against clenched teeth in the face of opposition.

“You’re a fucking joke.”

In one moment, the herculean grip on his hair is released, and Johnny starts to lift his head back up to sneer. In the next, his head is spinning with the inertia of Kerry slapping him. An ear rings where Kerry clipped it, indifferent to the momentary disorientation as he shoves at Johnny until he’s sitting on the vanity. It takes a moment for the sting of the metal rings adorning Eurodyne’s hand to kick in. 

“The fuck—?” Johnny starts, bringing a hand up to feel his cheek where the raw skin is feverish to the touch only to be intercepted. Kerry takes his wrist and slams it against the mirror, rattling the cheap glass in its frame.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spits, hackles raised like a rabid animal. His grip on the pinned wrist tightens until it earns him an involuntary gasp from Silverhand. Even then, he does nothing of substance to fight back. “Get down. Knees.”

“ _Fuck_ you.”

“I swear to _god_ , Johnny.”

There's a moment of terse eye contact, silently daring each other to make another move. When Johnny’s arm, scalding against the comparative cool of the mirror, makes a sudden movement to adjust for the added pressure, Kerry’s hand connects with his cheek once more. Earns him a proper wince that time. 

Were it not for the terrible attitude, Silverhand could be compared to an angel in that moment. The halo of bulbs on the vanity— even despite the burnt out ones— frame him excellently, doing all kinds of favors as they highlight his features. Or, maybe he’s just turned on by Silverhand’s routine bouts of righteous anger. Kerry doesn’t entertain the thought long, though. Especially as Johnny’s knee presses up against the growing swell in the crotch of his jeans. 

“Getting off, being in control?” He still doesn’t grasp that he’s no longer in charge. Still assumes that he’ll roll back over and merely accept what scraps of affection Johnny throws at him. 

“Eat shit. Get down.”

Albeit with great hesitance, Silverhand does what he’s told as Eurodyne’s grip on his wrists slackens. Even in the debasing position of being ordered to swallow a cock, he holds an air of dominion over the situation, as if he were merely loaning the power to Kerry, lending it temporarily with the expectation of interest well-paid. He finally settles— almost too easily— with the bridge of his nose pressed against Kerry’s clothed arousal. 

The vocalist’s hand finds its way back to Johnny’s locks as they always do, tangling in the dark hair and gathering it in a crude ponytail at the back of his head. He works his belt and fly loose with the other, watching Johnny’s expression from his new vantage point. 

“Least this way you’ll shut up.”

And for once, Johnny has no comeback. Resentment still broils eagerly beneath the surface as he visibly contemplates how to turn the tables on Kerry, but it’s no more effective than ruminating at that point. Eurodyne would sooner die than return power to him before he’d gotten so much as a taste of it. 

Before Silverhand can settle on any one plan of action, he’s brought back to the present as Kerry’s cock stands proud and already leaking from overexcitement just in front of his face. It’s intoxicating, the combination of testosterone and sweat from the show and natural earthy notes that fill Johnny’s nose. But he dare not show it. 

“Just gonna sit and stare?”

Scoffing indignantly through his nose, Johnny turns his head and noses at the base of his length. He doesn’t kiss, but rather mouths at him until he reaches the head, taking his time in how he laps at and suckles on the tip.

Kerry rewards his lackadaisical pacing with a shove that forces Johnny to take the first few inches. He’s quick to recover from the momentary shock, the threat of a reflexive gag looming as Kerry sits at the back of his throat, and he shoots a venomous glare skyward. 

As if he looks any sort of imposing where he’s kneeling in front of Kerry, cock pushing his cheek out and an angry blush burning his skin red. 

“Bite me and I’ll knock your fuckin’ teeth in.”

That makes Johnny’s stomach flip— the growl of authority spoken above him, coupled with the warning of Kerry tightening his grip on his hair. Eyes fluttering shut, he does his best to heed his words, knowing that when Kerry starts to grow cold and rigid as steel, that he’s not to be taken lightly. 

The typically hot-headed man rarely reaches such a high burning point that his rage turns cold. And the last time he did, someone got shot and left to bleed out in a dingy alley. Making Johnny eat his teeth is the furthest from the worst he’s done in anger. 

Bobbing his head, he works comfortably with a little less than half of Kerry’s length. Nothing to scoff at, for sure, seeing as he rivals Johnny in length and beats him in girth. Everything else stays warmed with Johnny’s hand, his thumb idly tracing the thick vein running up the middle. 

At the barest, accidental grazing of a molar against the sensitive underside of Kerry’s length, he’s ripped off and held in place by his ponytail. 

Gritting his teeth and bearing them like a feral dog being woken, Johnny’s just about to snap at Kerry when his ringed thumb all but forces entry, pulling his lips open. The thick metal band of Kerry’s signet ring wedges between his molars as he pries Johnny’s mouth wider. 

With it in place, the rockerboy can’t close his mouth and all the drool that had been aiding him now liberally slips from his lips in thick ropes. 

Kerry doesn’t say anything, doesn’t need to. He simply presses his hips forward and easily glides his cock against the groove of Johnny’s tongue. With Johnny stuckfast, forced between the fist in his hair and the hand gripping his jaw, Kerry starts to roll his hips and press deeper, deep enough that he watches Johnny wince and force himself to remain still past the natural discomfort. 

The rockerboy breathes out through his nose slowly as Kerry slips deeper into his throat. A small noise of struggle arises as Kerry keeps pushing until his nose is nestled in the curly hair above his shaft. And then he holds him there, a content sigh leaving his lips as Johnny lightly pushes at his thighs. 

“All that talk and you still take it like a bitch,” the vocalist growls. Despite all the venom in his words, he rolls his hips slowly, watching the webs of Johnny’s spit cling to his cock. Payback for all the times Silverhand decided to do the same just before a show, much less gently. 

Made for a better performance sometimes, but Eurodyne couldn’t encourage that. 

A huff forced from Johnny’s nose puffs out against his lower belly. He’s all bark, given how easily he accepts the new order of things. How easily he allows Kerry to take full advantage of their new position, throat offering gratuitously obscene noises as the girth pushes it outward. 

Johnny’s not green to deepthroating by any metric, but even Kerry’s firm, slow pace wreaks havoc on his throat. Tears prick painfully in his eyes as he’s fully debased, drool sliding lazily down his chin and staining the thighs of his pants. He fists the taut fabric, not quite gone enough to reward Kerry with a pitiful noise. 

“Gonna fuckin’ cry about it?”

Even as he speaks, the words don’t sound like his own. He’s only ever been on the receiving end, with Johnny’s prosthetic wrenching him around by his hair. His payback is mild in comparison. 

“Least your mouth is good for more than just talkin’ shit,” Kerry sighs. He must admit, the light suction of Silverhand’s tongue warm against his ventral vein is intoxicating, bordering on heavenly, and the headrush of his ramping orgasm is incomparable. 

The bite of harsh words is dampened somewhat as Eurodyne’s hand instinctively soothes over the rockerboy’s hair. The noises intensify as Kerry’s cock slides in and out of his throat. 

Kerry’s brow furrows as his climax tingles up his thighs. He’s overcome by the warm wetness of Silverhand’s mouth. His breath shudders out as his hips stutter. 

“I’m gonna—”

Silverhand’s groan vibrates around his cock, his anticipation making his own erection throb painfully for lack of stimulation. He does nothing more than take initiative and bobs his head in time with the other man’s erratic thrusts, helping Eurodyne cast himself over the edge. 

He’s only rewarded with a single spurt of cum at the back of his tongue before the vocalist pulls out with a pop. Johnny has all of a second to close his eyes before his face is painted with the rest of Kerry’s load. 

He can practically see his blood pressure rise as Johnny falls from the temporary high of being used. A hand immediately goes to wipe the offensive fluid from his face. Quicker on the draw, Kerry wrests his wrist away before he can, twisting his hand painfully and relishing the grimace that crosses Johnny’s features.

“ _Leave_ it,” Kerry hisses, as if he were scolding a bratty dog and not ordering the rockerboy to wear his cum. 

Johnny seethes quietly. Tries not to give into the urge to lick his lips clean. At least Kerry avoided his eyes, though whether or not that is intentional is unclear. Cum mats his facial hair and clings to a few stray locks of hair that frame his face. Cheap joytoys look better than he does after a facial— at least they have the decency to appear pleased with it. 

The other man runs his hand through Johnny’s hair, smearing it in with a proud smirk. Were he just slightly less cock-drunk still, he’d pull away before Eurodyne made a further mess of him. He’d be washing it off of himself for the next three days.

Kerry’s cock twitches in the lack of stimulation, glistening with spit and flushed. Still hard. Blame it on the hormones practically turning the air into soup. 

“Get up,” he orders, not-so-kindly aiding Johnny in his ascent by ripping his wrist upward. Stumbling to his feet, his knees sore from the unforgiving concrete floor, Johnny doesn’t have a moment to find his footing before Kerry is rudely shoving him. He catches himself on the edge of the vanity as the other fills in the space left behind him.

“Hands out,” Kerry says. He’s found that short and sweet demands are met faster. The rockerboy begrudgingly retains a sliver of his military discipline. Turning with one last weakened glare, Johnny does as he’s told.

Placing his palms out on the countertop, he looks anywhere but the mirror, at his reflection, at the solid mark of submission written all over his face. Just thinking about it makes the tips of his ears burn with humiliation. He’s fallen so far from grace and crashed at Kerry’s feet to just kiss his boot heels.

Maybe it’s not that bad, not when he feels Kerry easily finding his belt buckle and slipping it free from his belt loops. His cock has been left unattended, throbbing and leaking into his boxers while Kerry used him for his own pleasure. The moment the vocalist strips his jeans and boxers down to his calves, he sighs in relief, cock springing with its freedom.

Instinctively, his hand draws closer to try and alleviate the nigh-painful ache between his legs. For the insubordination, neglecting to remember the very explicit instructions he was given, Kerry thinks to give him a helpful reminder— yet again pinning the wayward wrist. This time to the mirror. The warmth of his palm being crushed against the glasses leaves a steamy handprint. He shuffles the moment he’s released, now bracing both hands against his reflection.

Framed between his arms, he has no choice but to acknowledge the man in the mirror. He shies away from it, sheepishly trying to cast his eyes elsewhere, but Kerry catches him and angles his chin forward.

“Look good like this,” Kerry drawls, watching Johnny’s face soften and fall into defeatism, “like my bitch.” 

Johnny only scoffs and shuts his eyes, but the image of Kerry’s load splattered across his cheeks and streaked into his hair is stained into his mind. Much as he detests it now, it’ll serve him well when he can’t find himself an output.

Jolting at the cold touch of rings to his lips, he opens his eyes again to look at Kerry through the reflection. They press against his startlingly soft mouth until Johnny allows them to slip inside, slide against his tongue, and try to choke him. 

_His bitch_. 

He mulls that over in his head as he works the digits, even granting a third to join until he’s drooling onto the counter top and breathing heavy through his nose. He can feel the weight of Kerry’s cock resting against his ass, the occasional bead of precum gracing his hole making butterflies swim in his stomach.

He’ll kill himself before he ever admits that he’s slowly starting to like this, like having Kerry in charge. Mean with it, careless to Johnny’s personal pleasure, and demanding, he burns hot enough to outshine Johnny’s sheer aggression and overpower him into submission— something few have been able to do to him before. Having gotten so used to his position on top, he’s almost forgotten how much he enjoys being smacked around and chewed on like a mere toy.

Almost.

The hand finally stops playing with his tongue, playing chicken with his gag reflex, and he doesn’t even fuss when Kerry shifts to wipe the slick fingers against his hole. He’s not careless to Johnny’s intimate health, shown in how he didn’t rupture his windpipe before and now doesn’t feel like breaking the man on his cock. It’s all the kindness he’ll get, and it’s all he wants.

“Been waiting for this forever,” Kerry says. Johnny would have been able to hear the mean smirk to his tone even without a mirror. His index finger circles the rim of Johnny’s hole teasingly. “Waiting to show you who owns who.”

“Ker,” Johnny grumbles, reduced to mere pet names. His thighs have a subtle involuntary quiver to them as he wrestles anticipation, but he’d blame it on the floor doing a number on his knees. They both know the truth. 

“Already beggin’ for mercy? Haven’t even touched you yet.”

Johnny lets his head fall, watching Eurodyne’s other hand snake around his waist and begin lazily pumping his cock. Simultaneously, his index presses into his heat. 

Neither of them so much as make a sound— beyond run-of-the-mill heavy breaths and airy sighs— as the tension settles to a simmer, however momentarily. Even in the midst of rough, objectifying sex, there’s a scrap of domesticity to be found in the routine of prepping the other. An unspoken agreement that just because it’s angry doesn’t mean that it has to be painful. 

Once Johnny’s worked open with a handful of patience and an endearing crinkle in Kerry’s brow from focus, he withdraws his fingers and presses the blunt head of his cock against his hole. Slowly, he feeds his length into the tight heat— not asking, but taking. 

Silverhand can’t help the cry of surprise that spills past his lips. The very kind he’d mock Kerry for making in the throes of passion. His chest flutters as he sucks in breath and spits it back out, floundering for a break, just a split-second of pause as he’s stretched to his limit. His knuckles are white as they grip for purchase against the smooth glass of the mirror. The mechanical fingers click and clatter on the surface, skittering for a hold. 

Kerry watches, pleased as can be that the tables have finally turned on Johnny. Both hands come to rest on the bassist’s hips and he leans over the plane of Silverhand’s back. 

An experimental roll of the hips, and it punches another clipped moan from Johnny’s throat. More beautiful than any song or poem Kerry’s ever heard— just as sweet and rare as the most perfect prose. He wants to hear it again and again. 

“Don’t you sing pretty?”

“Fu—uck.”

“Think I like you better with a cock in you.”

Johnny weakly thumps a loose fist against the mirror. He’s scrambling for any sense of control now, any way he could turn the situation back on Kerry. But with his face painted and his hair mussied and his belly bulged out with Eurodyne’s girth, it’s beyond possibility anymore. 

He keens shamelessly as the other man pulls out to the tip and fucks back in. Already made a whore of himself at this point, no reason to hold back. 

Long, jostling thrusts make Johnny’s hands skid against the mirror, unable to hold the position for long. Burying his face into the crook of his elbow, careless to the fact that he’s smearing the cum across his face and onto his arm, he pants open and ragged against the counter, fogging the lacquer. 

His cock bobs between his legs. He’s harder than he thinks he’s ever been in his life and is leaking precum like a broken faucet. It aches profoundly, left to hang without any stimulation; the only exception is whenever Kerry bottoms out, his cock filling him and hitting just right. Makes Silverhand’s shoulders tense and his metal fingers scrape at the counter. 

A rough pull on his hips and he’s forced a half-step back. He knows it’s not to save the crown of his head from hitting the mirror frame with each forceful thrust. Kerry digs his arms out from under Johnny and twists them back, wrenching Johnny’s arms into a position he’s all too familiar with as a delinquent in his youth. 

Then the vocalist smashes his face against the counter with his other hand holding him in place. The humiliation makes him groan deep in his throat. Used, tossed around like street scum, and enjoying every second of it.

Kerry tangles his fingers in Johnny’s hair, tempted to tug if he weren’t so fixated on his release. Just as he had used the rockerboy’s throat, he fucks into him with slow, devastatingly rough thrusts that push weaker and weaker moans from Johnny, until he’s broken the barrier into the territory of gasping whines and the occasional whimpers. 

His hole flutters around Kerry, begging for him to stretch him back open again each time he draws out. The bassist doesn’t need to be instructed for him to arch his back, pressing his hips against the force of Kerry’s. He does it simply because he _wants_ it, wants to feel Kerry pushing the flat planes of his stomach out every time he seats himself inside his tight heat, wants to feel and hear the smack of their thighs against each other, and wants— more than anything— to cum, knowing that Kerry is going fuck it out of him. 

That nauseatingly slow pace breaks, and Johnny can only slur out a handful of swears as the vocalist lays into him with everything he’s got. He tries to widen his stance, caught by his pants around his thighs, and meet his thrusts in time, but Kerry only crushes his weight down onto his head and back. 

Here, his performance doesn’t matter. Johnny is here as a tight, wet hole for Kerry to pump his load into. Everything else is secondary— his comfort, as he’s certain Kerry is going to give him a headache with how hard he insists he presses on his temple, nor his own release are factors to take into account. 

He’s lucky if he gets off at all.

“K-Ker’,” Johnny whines, hardly heard above Kerry’s rough panting and grunting. But the vocalist catches it, eyes flicking up to Johnny’s face as he finally lets up. He even tucks a few locks of hair behind Silverhand’s ear to keep it from bothering his eyes anymore. 

The gentle gesture in the midst of the utter destruction of his hole isn’t lost on him, no matter how far into the headspace he’s sunken. It warms Kerry’s heart that there really is some true sweetness to Johnny, even if it’s buried deep beneath layers of bitterness and resentment. And he’s gotta reward behavior he wants to see. 

Kerry settles his hand beside his other, pulling on Johnny’s arms for leverage. The thrusts become downright mean again— quick and deep and striking _just_ against the spot that makes Silverhand bear down on him. 

“Pretty li’l toy, take it so good. Jesus.”

Johnny can’t defend himself, can’t spit back venom no matter how much the deeply humiliated self-aware part of him wants to. He _is_ Kerry’s toy, and by god, he fucks like one.

He keens as Eurodyne’s hips lose their rhythm, descending into blind pursuit of his second climax. His wrists are forced meanly into the small of his back as he’s given the ride of his life. The vanity slams against the wall, practically shaking dust from the rafters as Kerry takes what he wants and then some. Bigger is better. 

He’d be lucky to just get away with bruises on his hipbones from the furniture. 

“Fu-ck me, shit, harder,” Johnny babbles. He’s unintelligible in this state, thighs violently shaking in their valiant attempt to keep him from collapsing. 

“Yeah— _fuck_ babe!” Kerry all but shouts, nails digging into Silverhand’s skin as his cock eagerly spills into him. All Johnny can do is gasp and cry out as the smaller man hammers away, panting as he empties his balls. 

“Shit, shit,” the vocalist whines. His legs are tentative in their support, only jeopardized further as Silverhand’s own end rocks his world and milks him as he re-paints the vanity. 

Johnny’s nails bite his palms as he rocks his hips, bucking into empty space. As the aftershocks subside, he slackens and goes limp against the countertop. Neither of them can say a word as breathy silence settles between them. 

The noises of their surroundings trickle back in gradually, initially forgone as they were wholly consumed by their lustful rage. The snicker of roadies in the commons outside, the bustle of hired crews tearing down meager equipment and packing it, the rush of the A/C ducts overhead. It grounds each of them again, though how long that’d last is hard to say. 

“Came inside?” Johnny finally asks, tone unreadable. Kerry isn’t sure of the answer he’s looking for, so he says nothing. Silverhand picks his head up as though it’s full of concrete and locks eyes with him through the mirror. 

The vocalist nods. And the slightest hint of a smile tugs at Johnny’s lips. Silverhand nods once before laying his cheek against the fogged chill of the surface beneath him. 

Breathing heavy, burnt out of all his stamina, Kerry finally releases the bassist’s wrists and settles his hands on his lanky hips. 

The moment he starts to draw out, Johnny complains with a growl and chases him back until Kerry relents. It’s endearing, almost, Silverhand’s refusal to separate just yet, enjoying the heavy fullness and warmth emanating throughout his entire body.

Chuckling, Kerry presses flush against him once more. Johnny sighs in relief, relaxing against the vanity. 

The grip on his body slackens as he sweeps his palms over Johnny’s back, pushing his shirt up higher and higher until Johnny begrudgingly lifts his head again to get the fabric over his head. It clings to his biceps, stretching the material out, as he sinks against the wood, face burying in his crossed arms. 

They rest together like that, with Kerry’s soothing strokes turning into kneading, working the knots out of the rockerboy’s muscles and apologizing with his hands for such rough handling. They can never apologize with words, tongues tying and drying in their mouths whenever they think to. 

“I…” Johnny starts, sounding as though he were chewing on gravel, “didn’t mean to fuck up your axe.” It’s the closest he’ll get to a true apology, deflecting his intention rather than the damages he’s caused, but Kerry has learned to take what he can get. 

“Whatever,” Kerry says, shrug in his voice, “needed somethin’ better anyway. Long as you chip in and pay me back.”

Johnny hums an affirmative, too focused on the comfortable bliss behind Kerry’s massaging. Working the knots out of his shoulders, thumbs digging into either side of his spine, and teasingly groping his ass, Kerry finishes with a few kisses between Johnny’s shoulder blades. 

“Alright, gotta move,” Kerry says, voice softened in his afterglow. When Johnny huffs, keeping his hips stubbornly flush with Kerry’s, the vocalist laughs sweetly. “Doors unlocked— you want someone to walk in?”

“Don’t care,” Johnny grunts simply. 

“‘Course,” Kerry hums. Even growing soft, he stays put lest Johnny start his fussing again. Fortunately loud enough to deter even the most curious and excitable groupies, they are left undisturbed until Silverhand grows restless, itching for a smoke, and finally orders Kerry off. 

“Watch it,” Kerry taunts lightly, to which Johnny scoffs around his cigarette, pants pulled back up with his belt hanging open. Taking a deep drag, he sighs on the exhale and rolls his eyes. 

“Don’t get used to it,” Johnny responds, gentle and easy.

**Author's Note:**

> [lambchop's twitter](https://twitter.com/commanderbait)   
>  [cowboyflesh’s twitter](https://twitter.com/silverdynes)


End file.
